"BOOKS!"-The word is an incantation in itself; a divining syllable that conjures up a multitude of images of Beauty, and Thought, and Power and Pleasure, in their loftiest and purest shapes. Books, truly, are the apostles of knowledge; and even in this age when they are more numerous than ever they were before-when every village has its COLLINS and its FIELDING at least and chronicles of Action and Character accumulate upon us faster than leaves in the budding spring, that throws from her vernal lap such myriads of fresh hues when production increases so rapidly as to suggest a hint of satiety—even in this prolific age, the lover of literature wearies not of the delight that "grows by that it feeds on."

The author of a recent allegory entitled "Adventures in the Moon," has put forward a pleasant fancy upon literature, in which he imagines our satellite to be the depository of all things that are lost upon earth-including even reputation-and amongst the rest those unfortunate books that, conceived in the vanity of men's ambition, are finally consigned to oblivion, and packed up in shelves in a commodious library prepared for their accommodation by Luna, the benignant patroness of all human follies and failures. It may be readily believed that the library must be tolerably extensive, and, although it would not exactly suit the purposes of a circulating library, seeing that the volumes of which it is composed must have ceased to circulate before they got there, yet it is to a miracle the sort of library which would crown the happiness of such retired and wealthy burgesses as the old gentleman in the "Clandestine Marriage," who so provokingly teazes Lord Ogleby by taking him over his grounds of a morning to "shew him his improvements." To people who never read, but who possess that enviable measure of substance which enables them to command all the luxuries of life, a library is more indispensable than to those who read by a condition of their nature as imperative as their physical appetites. Where the Passion exists, no hindrances can intercept its gratification. The want of a library is supplied in a

thousand ways the eye explores every nook and cranny where a book is to be found-and a few books, inexhaustible in their kind, constitute the Penates of the poor scholar. Dermody learned Greek at the book-stalls, where he was discovered, in rags and in want, by some passing Mecænas, who, encouraging his genius, drew out that felicitous spirit of Poetry which was ultimately quenched in his own wild excesses. Bloomfield used to hide his books-the scanty volumes he purchased with savings garnered up by severe privations-under his work-board, and used to read all the night through. The springs of literature are at the feet of the student, tread where he will, in solitude or in crowds, and whether he be steeped in penury, or surrounded by riches. Nor can the fruits of his research be taken from him. They are indestructible. "Persecution," exclaimed Tasso in prison, "cannot make me forget what I have acquired. They may prohibit the light of heaven, and the common aliment of life; but they cannot deprive me of my knowledge." To the Book-worshippera being quite as imaginative and enthusiastic as the Fire-worshipper-books are always accessible, and the Faith is so strong within him that he has no need to trouble himself about the outward Forms. But it is with books as it is with more sacred things. Those who are the least moved in the spirit are the most scrupulous about appearances. They get up a library, as other people go to church, for the sake of the example, and for the credit of their reputation. The rich man must have his library. It is a part of

his stock in character. It is as unavoidable an appendage of his country-house as his conservatory, his clumps of evergreens, his orange alleys, his pond, his artificial vistas, and manufactured ruins. The quality of his books is not the point; number, binding, the munificence of the display, are the essentials. His shelves rival the condemned archives of the Moon-the Botany Bay of the publishers.

Now it is not our intention, in looking back upon the BOOKS OF 1836, to inquire what portion of them may by this time have evaporated into air, and found their

way in shadowy resuscitation to that forlorn resting-place from whence no mortal hand may ever snatch them-where there are no second editions, real or pretended, to cheer the desponding authors, or stimulate the reluctant public-where there are no venal critics to exalt false pretension, and decry real excellence-and where stern Truth presides over an appellate jurisdiction whose decrees are irreversible. We propose nothing more than a hasty gathering of reminiscences, which, like the imagerial, points in Mnemonics, will help to light up the chain of associations, kindling along the almost countless links of a year's reading. The retrospect is abundantly diversified, not only in matter, but in degrees of merit, and is replete with instruction. What a multitude of pens have been employed in these productions; what reams of paper have been blotted, torn, burned, and engrossed. in their preparation; what an endless variety of gestures, shrugs, grimaces, and hems! and pshaws! have been expended over the sheets, as they grew into MSS. under the quickening labours of the authors; what hours have been stolen from sleep, and prayer, and champaign, and domestic duty, pleasure, pain, and the whole round of business and enjoyment, for the busy solitude of invention; how many temptations have been resisted, how many cares have been combated, how many compunctions. of pride have been sacrificed, to enable the writers of these books to dwell in the delusions of their imagination, and to make unto themselves, for a brief season, a sort of beatitude, which is utterly incomprehensible to everybody else. A curious chapter might be put together on the habits of authors, who being, by universal consent, the most eccentric, unmanageable, ambiguous, hare-brained, and self-willed class of people, furnish, of course, the most extraordinary instances of the curious and wonderful in natural history. But that does not come within the scope of our present purpose: some day or another, perhaps, we may make an anthology of the ways of authors; we have now to do only with their books.

There were not more than two or three works published within the year that properly fall into the division of History; although there were several that might be considered as contributions to historical knowledge. The "History of China," published in the "Edinburgh Cabinet Library,"

and the "History of Russia," published in "Lardner's Cyclopædia," were the only volumes legitimately entitled to take permanent rank as histories. The former is compiled with great care and industry, and possesses the advantage of extending its utility beyond the province of narrative record, by embracing a variety of separate details upon the social condition of the people and the productions of the soil. In the latter, the History of Russia may be said to be presented to the English reader for the first time: for, with the exception of Tooke's disjointed and singularly incorrect book, there is no other work upon the subject in our language. The third volume is yet wanted to complete this publication. Mr. Stebbing's "History of the Reformation" is too diffuse in its materials to claim a place for its author amongst the historians who have confined themselves to the affairs of nations; but, considered as a wide view of the events connected with the establishment of the Reformed Faith, it will be found worthy of the attention of general readers, who have neither learning nor leisure enough to dip into the original sources for themselves. Of the historical narratives, one of the most prominent is Mr. James's "Life of the Black Prince," tediously elaborated, crowded with the minute results of a somewhat extended research, but incomplete in design, and deficient in clearness of arrangement and purity of style. Carr's "Manual of Roman Antiquities" (apparently indebted in a considerable degree to Adam's "Roman Antiquities") ought to be noted as a useful key to the student of the classics; and a translation, from the German, of Hase's "Public and Private Life of the Greeks," which was published about the same time, ought to be classed along with it, for the sake of its utility, although it does not come within the range of English works. Admiral Napier's "Account of the War in Portugal," in which he was a leading actor, hardly deserves a place in our enumeration. But it is a remarkable book for many reasons. It is distinguished by a blunt, sailor-like frankness, by the truth and fearlessness of its matter, and the absence of that spirit of display which might be excused in a man who had come home crowned with triumphs, and who sat down to record them in the heat of excitement produced by the ingratitude of the Government he served. And here ends our historical retrospect, which, considering the

character of our national literature, is exceedingly meagre and contemptible.

A benison as pure as unsunned snow, and as sweet as the south breathing over a bed of still more aromatic flowers than violets, rest upon the Old Times! The genial, kindly, unsophisticated Old Times, when the houses were roofed with pancakes, and the streets were paved with gold! There is something more than the mere fabulous El Dorado in that nursery legend, good reader. It is an allegory that carries with it a palpable allusion to that felicitous credulity which in former times represented the body of the age; when men believed honestly in the plenteousness of the land, and always looked at the sunny side of things; when they eschewed the shadow of doubt, and took every matter for granted that was recommended by its qualities of the marvellous or the magnificent. That was the time for books of travels! What wonderful voyages men made in those days to the Coast of Guinea and the Highlands of Scotland! And what stories they brought home! The Anthropophagi were beggared in description by the tribes that were seen in the West Indies; and people in those happy days never troubled themselves about settling disputed points in geography, for they never had any disputes on the subject, and they did not care a pin's point whether the Leeward Islands ought to be called Windward, or the Windward Leeward, or neither the one nor the other. It was a succession of agreeable tales with our forefathers, who, flying from discussion, basked in the pleasant light of their own easy faith, like the noble company in Boccaccio escaped from the plague, and indulging in dreams of soothing tranquillity. We have suffered a "sea-change." Our travellers for the most part very nearly as entertaining, and infinitely more artificialcan hardly see the sights they are so deeply engrossed in themselves; and that which they permit their readers to see is seen through a medium that colours it inevitably with the idiosyncracy of the writer. Thus a modern book of travels in Africa presents us with an Africa of the author's own; he spreads himself over Africa until he covers it, and we are compelled to look through him (it is true he is transparent enough) before we can catch a glimpse of the land. But amidst the mass of books of this kind, including tours, travels, and descriptions, which in the last year amounted

to at least thirty in number, there are some that will descend to the next generation, who, if the world progresses as it has done hitherto, will be harder of belief than ourselves. These may be briefly catalogued. A work on the Chinese, by Mr. Davis, who went out with Lord Amherst, and who possessed excellent opportunities for forming an accurate opinion upon the habits and character of the people, is full of information of a very valuable kind, and may safely be referred to as an authority. He was not one of those gentlemen who peeped into the Canton market, dined with a Hong merchant, landed at Whampoa, stared at the female smugglers, and conceived himself capable all at once of illuminating the world upon the mysteries of a country that is guarded at all points with as much jealousy as the seraglio at Constantinople. He saw the Chinese face to face, was licensed amongst them, as far as any licence could carry and protect him, had time and means for observation, and profited by them. Another work developing extensive knowledge, and acute criticism, and worthy of permanent fame, is Mr. Strang's "Germany." In this publication we obtain a complete view of the German character, free from such metaphysical refinements as obscure the laboured analyses of Madame de Staël, and the jargon that has latterly mystified the English public upon all matters concerning intellectual Germany. Mr. Strang's opinions are founded upon patient investigation. They are not always correct, and sometimes they betray a weakness of judgment in reference to individuals that can be referable only to personal feelings, or those accidents of intercourse that sometimes paralyse the judgment. Nor is the treatment of the whole as lucid and systematic as could be desired. But the work is of decided importance from the magnitude of its grasp, and the variety, novelty and general excellence of its matter. The most profound publication, however, of this class that was issued within the year, is Mr. Laing's admirable work on Norway, a country of whose institutions and resources we were comparatively ignorant. In these volumes, the social policy of Norway, its agriculture, its legal tenures, its laws, customs, and costume, are opened up with an amount of ability, a closeness of thought, and an accuracy in the accumulation and employment of facts, that can hardly be estimated too highly. It unquestionably

ranks beyond all its contemporaries for the soundness of its views, and the certainty and fulness of its statements. The rest of the books of travels or notes of stunted observation might be dismissed, without any great loss of enjoyment, as the magicians on the stage sometimes dismiss their imps, by a significant wave of the rod, and an ominous darkling of the features. But we must, in courtesy, venture a little into particulars. Mrs. Trollope's "Paris and the Parisians," a book like a flamingo blazing upon us as if it would set us on fire, full of a false brilliancy, affected, and impudent in proportion: Mr. Power's "Recollections of America," a very pleasant, superficial, and descriptive book, with hardly any real life in it: Cooper's "Excursions in Switzerland," quite unworthy of his name, and little better than a series of exhausted landscapes and worn-out ruminations: Mr. Willis's "Inklings of Adventure," all vanity and gossip: Mr. M'Gregor's "Note Book," light, trivial, and common-place, but enlivened by a very agreeable tone of individuality: Lieutenant Slidell's "American in England," which may be useful to anybody who is deficient in a knowledge of such facts as that the streets of London are lighted with gas, and that English hotels are remarkably comfortable, but monstrously expensive: the "Spain Revisited," by the same author, is something better, the mere externals having been worn out in the first visit, and soberer matters forming the contents of the second: Mr. Rankin's "White Man's Grave," a veritable attempt to prove that Sierra Leone is a most salubrious spot; perhaps one of the most incomprehensible statements on record, except that of the Blind Traveller, who assures us in his voyage of circumnavigation, that he actually went to Sierra Leone for the benefit of his health! Madrid in 1835, exhibiting a variety of details concerning the social life of the Spaniards, but written in a very loose way, and betraying a spirit of book-making: "Greece," by Sir Granville Temple, just the sort of book that might be anticipated from a gentleman travelling at his ease, and going back, at his ease also, upon his classical recollections: "Baptists in America," a work dedicated chiefly to an account of a mission that had for its object a union between the English and American Baptists, and explaining the particulars of a schism on the Slave question: "A Saunter in Belgium," traversing ground as familiar as

Regent Street: "The Continent in 1835," by Professor Hoppus, fragmentary, desultory and valueless, except for scraps of opinion on religious subjects: "A Summer in Spain," a very light affair: and "Evenings Abroad," written in a poetical spirit, by a Lady. From these average and indifferent publications, must be exempted Mr. King's very clever and picturesque " Account of Captain Back's Expedition to the Arctic Ocean," to which expedition he was surgeon and naturalist. This is one of the most satisfactory works of the kind we have ever read. But, perhaps, the most useful book, after all, connected with the subject of travels, which the year produced, is the "Hand Book for the Continent," the fullest, most correct, most explanatory, and most tasteful guide-book extant.

A variety of works that belong to no distinct class, but that may be safely indicated in the aggregate by the irresponsible designation of the Miscellaneous, found their way into print during the year; how much farther they got, must be determined by a journey to the Moon. For example, there was Mr. Bulwer's "Monarchy of the Middle Classes," a book that takes great pains to go round and round an obvious truth that might be exemplified and established in a single page of plain reason;

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The Tamar and Tavy," by Mrs. Bray, a description of the scenery and antiquities of the neighbourhood where she lives, with a very wife-like account of her husband; "Random Recollections of the House of Lords," and "The Great Metropolis," both written by a Mr. Grant, a reporter, full of the most unaccountable mistakes, feeble in style, and distinguished by compound fractures of truth and the English language; "The Court and Camp of Don Carlos," by Mr. Honan, a strong partisan view of the war in Spain; "The Correspondence of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu," edited by Lord Wharncliffe, but throwing scarcely any new light upon the biography or character of her Ladyship; and two or three Confessions of the Lives of Ministers, both High Church and Dissenting, produced by the discussions on the Church question and the Voluntary principle. Throughout the whole of these there is not a single book of pure literature. The only work that will carry the reader out of the turmoil of the world is that satirical, philosophical “Journey to the Moon," to which we have alluded. It is evidently written by one